Ten Years
by ParsleyFeline
Summary: A short thing documenting the separation and reunion of X Middle School's finest.


Fillmore! is actually the world's most perfect kids' show and everyone should watch it okay. There is nothing better than a cheesy 70s cop show set in a middle school, go and watch it right now.

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><p>Cornelius Fillmore has been on a very specific path since the age of twelve. It's a good path for him, he thinks, it suits him better than the life of delinquency that had been laid out for him by bad stereotypes and worse choices. Therefore it surprises no one when straight out of high school he enrolls in police academy, prepared to take the police force on by storm. Fillmore is a born detective, how could he do anything else?<p>

Ingrid Third, on the other hand, is smart. Extremely smart, the smartest kid in school so when she was given the top pick of any college in the country, no one is surprised about that either.

No one, that is, except Cornelius Fillmore.

Looking back on it, he's not sure why he was surprised. Sure, they'd been partners for years and there was probably no one more important to him, but at the end of the day they were still very different people. It wasn't like he expected Ingrid to follow him wherever he went, but the idea that taking different paths once school was done with would separate them hadn't really occurred to him. Congratulations Fillmore, you let the blindingly obvious escape you.

Some detective.

He waves goodbye and promises to write and makes her promise to write back, and she laughs and tells him that phones exist for a reason Fillmore, and then promises anyway. It's not the end of them, but it is the end of an era and both feign something in their eye as the distance increases.

The letters come regularly for about three months, interspersed with the occasional phone call until police training really kicks in and Fillmore wakes up one morning with the realization that it's been over a half a year and he hasn't so much as whispered in Ingrid's direction.

Ingrid, in the mean time, is getting murdered by her first year of chemistry and forensic science, and when she gets a letter in the mail with achingly familiar handwriting she's quietly delighted and swears to herself that she'll write back once classes are over. She reminds herself the whole day, writes it on notebooks and post-its and random surfaces in her dorm room (that one really pisses off her roommate) to make sure that she does it, and then she gets hauled down by work and has to spend the entire evening on research and papers, glancing frequently and guiltily at the two words scrawled on the kitchen table.

'Write Fillmore'

Fillmore understands. He really does, it's getting to the end of school year and she's probably just bogged down by finals and papers and college stuff. Ingrid's got more smarts in her pinky finger than most people do in their whole bodies, but even a genius needs time to work. It's nothing to worry about, it's not like he hasn't been busy either.

He would feel better about it if he weren't so busy obsessively checking his mail.

She finally manages to get in contact just before her summer break happens and they promise that they'll meet up for coffee or something, get some time to catch up except Fillmore's on his beat now, stuck working night shifts and he can't stay awake long enough during the day for any kind of meaningful conversation, never mind finding the time to get over to see her.

They go on like this for three years.

By this point Fillmore is the best detective on the force. Time has jaded him somewhat; the system in the real world contains a lot more bullshit than the one at X Middle School did, and there are way too many people like Parnassus in the world for him to be happy with his job. But he keeps going. The satisfaction of a job well done is a powerful thing. He cycles through partners like underwear, and he's not stupid, he knows exactly why he can't take to any one for more than three months or so, but it's probably best that his boss just thinks he's picky.

Ingrid, in the mean time, burns through her degree like paper and, with a lot of wrangling, manages to cut her course time down a couple of years. She still finishes with a first class honors, and ignores the stares as she graciously accepts her diploma, a small, secretive smile on her lips.

It's been over a year since the last letter, short and cursory, made it through the mail slot. Ingrid isn't going to put up with it anymore.

Fillmore is much more surprised than he should be when he encounters her in the halls of the precinct, her name startled from his mouth before he can stop it.

"Ingrid."

She smiles and he knows that she's been planning this, god knows for how long, but she has, he can see that shit-eating grin hiding behind her smile. He doesn't know that her heart is pounding with nerves after so long, and she'll never tell him.

"Hey, Fillmore," she says, and shakes his hand and he may as well be twelve years old again as the nostalgia hits him like a golf club to the gut. They're wearing matching smiles, and Fillmore's chief inspector can't shake the feeling that he's the third wheel in this meeting before guiding Ingrid to his office and sending Fillmore off to his.

Ten minutes later, Ingrid is sitting on his desk admiring his shabby décor, from the walls (beige), to the shades (also beige), to his desk (which is actually quite a nice shade of brown but only serves to highlight how beige everything else is). Fillmore's current partner is a man only as stupid as he is inept, and Fillmore thought that he kind of reminded him of O'Farrell until he discovered that his incompetence was paired with a mean streak a mile wide. The idiot tries to hit on Ingrid until she smiles at him, razor sharp, and murmurs something that Fillmore can't quite catch. The door slams closed behind him a split second later.

"Your partner's a real charmer," she comments dryly, and Fillmore huffs out a laugh and offers her a cup of coffee.

"Fillmore, I'm going start to think you don't want me around. I've tried the sewer water this place calls coffee, there's no way I'm touching that stuff."

"Don't worry, I bring my own stash," he says, waggling his eyebrows conspiratorially. Ingrid's hand flies to her mouth in an expression of mock surprise and when she gasps "crackers!" it's too much, everything feels so perfect and ridiculous that they just burst out laughing so hard that the people in the pen come to see what's wrong.

They're partnered up within a month.

Fillmore has never been so happy.


End file.
